Azanian Bridges

by Nick Wood

  I feel a growing excitement: “How long, Dan?”

  He shrugs. “If I call in a few favours from tekkies I know in Jo’burg, I’d say a week at the outside.”

  Helen squeezes a last drag out of her cigarette and angrily stubs it out in a saucer before Dan manages to pick up the tray. “Dan, dear,’ she says sweetly.

  He lifts the tray and I hear the cups rattle, but his voice is steady: “Yes, dear?”

  “If Jody gets hurt as a result of any of this, you’ll be sleeping out your days on that ratty couch in your poky university office, understand?”

  I catch his eye; his expression is hard and determined “Yes, dear,” he says, exiting the room, tray in hand. This time, the crockery doesn’t shift an inch.

  Helen’s eyes lose focus and she gazes into the distance, smiling to herself. I’m starting to feel light-headed, so I wander over to the window and peer discreetly through the gap in the curtains out into the road.

  “Who are you and what you want?” A little girl is standing in the doorway, clutching a teddy bear aggressively under her left arm, her brown hair tousled from sleep.

  Helen jerks out of her daze, swiftly walks over to her: “Just a friend of Daddy’s who’s about to leave, darling, let’s go back to bed now, shall we?”

  The mother models bluntness successfully for her daughter.

  As Helen walks past me, she hands me a card, “Bye Martin, be careful out there. I hope you won’t need this.”

  While I wait for Dan to return, I look down at the small plain business card, instantly recognising the name: Helen De Lange MA LLB. No wonder Dan walks on eggshells around her. She’s a top-notch corporate lawyer, often quoted in the papers.

  Dan may not have inherited his money after all.

  He slumps back into the lounge, a grumpy expression on his face. Maybe he’s just exhausted. “You on your way, Marty?”

  “Yes,” I say, “when the guy walking his dog gets to the bottom of the road.”

  He grimaces: “You’ve seen him too, hey? It’s no wonder Helen’s so jumpy.”

  “A week you reckon?”

  “Tops,” he says, leading me to the front door. Once it’s open, I make a quick dash for my car.

  Somewhere in the neighbourhood, another dog barks.

  They hold their meeting in a surprisingly public place, for an organization toying with a banning order. I pretend to be looking at University posters, hanging outside in the reception room of the Main Hall, Scottsville Campus, having picked up an e-mail alert about the meeting from Professor Pillay, our Principal Psychologist. Dan is in Jo’burg, supposedly fixing the EE machine with the aid of some cutting-edge software engineers.

  There are lots of Afro-Rap and Cyber-Jazz concert sessions advertised, as well as people looking for accommodation, cheap psychological textbooks or orgasmic enlightenment. I am not looking too hard though, engaging my peripheral view to see who is entering the hall, keeping a particular lookout for anyone resembling Special Branch agent Brand.

  Down near the right hand bottom corner of the board I see Ad Lib and The Four Horsemen are creaking out of retirement; as is an ever defiant Roger Lucey, with his Zub Zub Marauders. The killer is the opening band though – a black Afro-jazz outfit from Umlazi called The Terrorists, who have just played The Rainbow Club in Pinetown. Now that looks like it could be a lively concert, as the organisers have no doubt not applied for official permission.

  People jostle past. Unable to stand it, I move into the hall itself, a high-ceilinged room lined with a row of chairs facing an empty mike on stage. I choose a chair on the right-hand side of the back row, pick up a small sheet lying on the chair and hold a newspaper up. I can angle and dangle the paper, looking past it, without being too obvious.

  The seats at the front are filling up fast. Most of their occupants are youngsters of course; students are easily radicalized, despite the occasional whiff of tear-gas or thrash of a sjambok on a march. What surprises me is there are more females than males. Some are attractive indeed, but perhaps a bit on the young side for me. I spot our Principal Psychologist, Professor Pillay, searching for a seat near the front.

  I find my newspaper dropping as the rows fill up.

  A fat youngster squeezes in next to me: he’s black-haired, with faded acne pockmarks and a shave shadow around his lower face and upper lip. A faded-looking but interesting brunette with short punky hair slips in next to him. She’s slight and boyish, but looks to be pushing forty.

  I notice she glances at my copy of the Mercury before she sits down, as if interested in finding out which page I’m on. I almost want to fold it up; she doesn’t look as if she’s a rugby fan. Her face is deadpan though, and when she sits down I can hardly see her around the burping bulk of the man between us. Music kicks out of the speakers - aggressive sounding Afrikaner music.

  The big youngster shifts excitedly in his chair and turns to me, “Kerkorrel – under house arrest now you know and openly a moffie too...”

  I grunt, suspecting he just wants to show off his knowledge. Sure enough, he turns back to watch the stage. Five people are filing up the steps, taking seats behind the mike. Two white men, two white women and one wispy looking Indian woman.

  I look at the leaflet I’d almost sat on – the Indian woman must be Wadwalla – she’s wearing a translucent purple scarf, perhaps she’s a Muslim.

  A stanza of street smart rap-kwela staccatoes into the room: the harsh biting vocals of Nick Pereira filling the space with his call for ‘Burn the Barricades’.

  The young man looks puzzled, so I lean across to him, “The Rude Boys.”

  He scowls at me.

  A thickset white man with a blond moustache stands up and taps the mike, which screeches momentarily, and the buzz of conversation in the hall drops. The theme for the talks tonight is ‘galvanizing social-psychological resources – for a better South Africa. ‘

  The man starts talking. Initially, I find it hard to concentrate, wondering instead whether he’d make a good prop forward for the Banana Boys, the Natal rugby team. And, as I lean forward slightly, I catch a better side view of the woman, who is rocking forward, listening intently. She has an attractive face, high cheek-boned, a little furrow forming in-between her light brows as she concentrates.

  I decide I’d better make an attempt to listen too. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get a chance to compare notes.

  Glancing at the sheet, I assume that the speaker must be Dr. Breedt. He’s talking about the human cost in terms of victims of violence in the townships, wants health professional volunteers to mobilize in response, including white expertise.

  As he finishes up, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze. I turn my head, pulse speeding up when I realise the attractive woman has transferred her attention from the stage to me.

  I try to keep staring forward, straining my peripheral vision, disappointment clutching at me as the woman stares forward again, no doubt in response to Ms. Wadwalla as she starts speaking.

  According to the pamphlet, oh, Doctor Fariedah Wadwalla is a lecturer at Fundimiso College and there’s a brief burst of applause as she thanks the organization for inviting her. A man at the front of the hall stands up to photograph her; she blinks as the flash hits her eyes.

  I catch my breath. I’d recognize Brand anywhere. He rocks on his heels and scans the crowd, camera at the ready.

  Swamped with panicked nausea, I lever myself carefully out of my seat, trying to screen my face with the newspaper. As I’m hunched over, trying to slide out without being noticed, the fat man next to me turns to me and says: “Are you leaving because they’ve got an Indian speaking?”

  I resist slapping him with my paper, concentrating on weaving behind the chairs towards the door. The attractive brunette turns to give me a quizzical smile.

  For just a moment, my panic eases. I fumble in my pocket and haul out my private practice card. “Call me,” I hear my idiotic voice saying, as if from outside me, flipping the card over her
right shoulder and into her lap.

  Then I’m stepping into the hallway and out into the balmy evening, cursing myself for being so brazen. Might she be the type of woman who’d be impressed by the ornate lettering of the Ph.D. behind my name, though?

  Despite my Doctorate, it takes me a good few minutes to find my car.

  It took me a good while to locate the Pine Nut Motel, on the outskirts of ’Maritzburg and almost on the Comrades Marathon road to Durban. Dan had asked me to delete the text too, in case my phone got hacked, so I’d scribbled the address on the back of the Psychology Protest sheet.

  I park in front of a low-slung yellow prefab-style building which, despite the flashing sign advertising free cable TV at the front, oozes cheapness. It’s a cool night, the tarmac still slippery from the remnants of the late afternoon storm. The parking lot is fairly empty, but I feel uncomfortably exposed as I tread around neon-tinged shallow pools, heading for the Reception.

  He’d booked in as a Mr. Smit; I wonder whether that had raised any sceptical laughter.

  The glass door reinforced with squared metal grilling is heavy and stiff, requiring a shoulder leaned into it in order to push it open under squeaking protest. A large white security guard with a raggedy beard and gun hanging from a belt at maximum stretch around his waist barely glances at me as I stride past him, heading for the corridor door, as if I know exactly where I’m going.

  “Hey,” a man shouts from behind the reception desk, but I pretend not to hear him.

  “Oi,” he shouts again; I sense the security guard waking up a bit behind me.

  “Shit...” I murmur, turning with reluctance to the reception desk, with its large ‘No guns/GeenVuurwapens’ sign hanging over the walled recess where the desk is placed. The receptionist - a thin swarthy man who looks to be on the edge of reclassification - is obviously exempt. I notice a lump on his hip, partially hidden underneath his tight brown corduroy jacket.

  “Where you going, boet?”

  “Just to visit a friend,” I say, trying to appear casual.

  “Who’s that then, my china?”

  “Uh – Mister Smit in 129.”

  “What?” he looks momentarily confused: “You mean to say he smaaksouens too?”

  “Huh?” I’m lost for a moment too and then think, Dan, you dirty dog; it’s obviously not the first time you’ve been here.

  “Just go up man, but I don’t want no mess or anything sticky left behind, okay? You catch my drift?”

  I do indeed.

  As will Dan.

  I find room 129 at the end of a dingy ill-lit greenish corridor. The hallway smells of old urine and, somewhat oddly, stale curry.

  The 2 is hanging upside down, just missing concealing the security peep-hole around eye height. I knock briskly, a neon light flickering and buzzing above my head. I hear padded footsteps and glower through the peephole, although all I see is a vague dark shape shifting.

  The door opens to a worried looking Dan in yellow T-shirt, faded jeans and white takkies. I push my way past him and into a small bedroom; a tiny en-suite toilet and shower off to the left. Apart from a lumpy bed draped in a stained coverlet, the room is empty of furniture; clearly its patrons don’t come here to work.

  Dan locks the door and turns the shower on full. “Seen that in a Bond movie,” he confides with a smile. “No one should hear us now, if the room is bugged.”

  “We still have a water shortage,” I point out, “And how will they have known to bug this room?”

  He shrugs awkwardly and drops his eyes.

  “So, shall we do it here on the bed – or do you prefer the floor?”

  “What?” He stares at me as if he thinks I’m mad, but his shifting eyes and the faint pinking of his cheeks betrays some embarrassment.

  “That bastard Joubert at the desk blabbing too much again – that’s the last time he gets a tip from me.”

  “How can you do this to Helen?”

  He frowns in the deepening flush of his face: “Oh come off it Martin, you couldn’t even sustain your own marriage.”

  “Yes,” I feel my own anger rising: “But at least we didn’t cheat on each other.”

  “Who says we’re built for monogamy anyway? You saw how sharp Helen was with me.”

  “But you fucking let her!”

  He sighs deeply and bends down, digging a red duffle bag from under the bed. “Look, drop it okay, we’re getting nowhere with this, let’s just stick to why we’re here.”

  The bed dips slightly under the weight of the bag. He pulls on the draw-string and slides the box out. The top section is brown, not black like the other five sides. He seems to read my mind, but then, we do go back a long way.

  “So they couldn’t match the colours, the main thing is whether it works or not – at least they seem to have made a decent stab at fixing it, although our research funds are pretty arid by now.”

  “Did you try it out?”

  He grins, a bit too broadly, as if to smooth over our earlier disagreement, “You joking, Marty? Who wants someone else knowing their deepest darkest secrets – and we have no health guarantees on the machine. You skim you can get your black patient to do this again?”

  Sibusiso.

  I shrug. “I can try, I guess.”

  He packs the Box back in the bag and hands me the cords carefully. “Oh – and please take better fucking care of it this time, we can’t afford any more uh, breakages.”

  I swing it onto my back, shrug my jacket over it. I now look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  Dan playfully slaps my cheeks on both sides. “This is our future fortune on your back, okay broer, so again, be fucking careful – I’m in the process of trade-marking and copyrighting this as our EE Machine. We can make one hell of a packet if we market this right.”

  I look at him aghast: “I thought this was to advance human communication and connection and the science of empathy?”

  He grins, “Yes, Marty, that still sounds good – but, in addition, the next house that gets bought will be bigger than what I have now – and this time, I get to slap the bucks down!”

  I say nothing, just turn, open the door and leave.

  A startled Indian woman in the hallway ducks back into her room. It looks like the Group Areas are starting to fray around the edges in these liminal, marginalized spaces.

  Joubert and the bored Security Guard don’t even throw me a glance as I stride through the lobby, looking like an ogre... No doubt they’ve seen far worse.

  I scan the dimly lit parking lot before scurrying across to my car, bag bouncing on my back despite my taut jacket, an edge of the EE machine digging into the space between my shoulder blades.

  Bag locked in the boot I sit at the wheel of my car, waiting for Dan to emerge. His little VW is parked quietly off to one side, next to a BMW to minimize its chances of being stolen.

  He doesn’t come.

  I see a woman in short coat and high heels clop her way through the gate, heading for the motel. She looks hurried and furtive, but is obviously proud of her smooth, pale, long legs. She may be on her way to Room 129.

  Two meetings for the price of one, perhaps, Dan? If so, he’s still careful to be staying on the right side of the Immorality Act.

  I start the car, wondering at how familiar people can suddenly become complete strangers.

  Chapter 7

  Sibusiso at Hope’s Folly

  I follow Nombuso into the hallway, swinging my gaze across wide sagging ceilings, green grunge hiding in the dark corners underneath bobbing spider-webs. The hall is wide and airy and flows through into a massive space, cluttered with a naked, lumpy green couch, a few hard chairs and a TV. Rooms with closed doors are sealed off from the corridor and it feels like I am propelled after Nombuso, through the gaping lounge and wide-open front doors onto the stoep. This is one massive stoep; its red concrete is warm from sun leaking through the dense crimson bougainvillea hanging from a sturdy wooden frame overhead.

&n
bsp; There are steps leading down from the stoep towards fields of cows, circled by the tick-tick-ticking of an electric fence cord. The steps have wide sloping concrete banisters; both the left and right side are occupied by a person lying on them, feet facing downwards, on long green cushions no doubt stolen from the couch. There’s a short bearded man on the right banister and a large plump white woman on the left.

  Nombuso is slapping palms with the man and I notice the woman is asleep, vest and short denim skirt revealing large rolls of pinky-brown flesh.

  “Hey Sibusiso, meet Thulani.”

  The man swings his legs off the banister and sits at an awkward angle, smiling stiffly up at me. He has no shirt on and his short trunk is powerfully muscled with tight and disciplined curls of chest hair.

  He raises a hand, but does not offer it – I guess slaps have to be earned.

  The woman stirs and holds her arms out, feeling the base of the banister and adjusting her position, so as not to fall off. It looks like a skill that has taken many sun cycles to master.

  “Eh –?” She grunts and I see her eyes are open. She is watching me as I stand self-consciously at the top of the stairs.

  Nombuso barks a short laugh: “Jill, meet Sibusiso, I have just fetched him from Fort Napier.”

  Jill’s eyes flare and she struggles to sit up, losing her balance. Nombuso steps forward and catches a hand, stopping her rolling backwards off the banister.

  “Why have you brought him here, Nombuso?” Thulani sounds blunt and looks sour.

  Jill has regained her balance and slides off the step, skirt hitching up around her hips and I glance away politely. Inside, I am angry, unsure now why she has indeed brought me here. Am I the local mad entertainment?

  Nombuso perches next to Thulani and gestures at me to sit opposite, where Jill has perched, skirt rearranged modestly.

  I lean, standing, ready to move quickly should I need to.

  “Sibusiso was in the college march. His friend was killed next to him. He is finding that hard to deal with – as would any of us.”